Ah, life in the albergue, where snoring is a symphony, morning alarms start at 5:12 AM sharp, and personal boundaries are a faint suggestion at best. But nothing quite prepared J for the man in the thong. To this day, no one really knows what the thong was. A loincloth? A minimalist Speedo? A pair of boxers that had lost the will to live? Whatever it was, it had surrendered the battlefield of modesty entirely, leaving his butt cheeks gleaming defiantly in the lamplight like twin moons rising over bunk bed ridge.

J was mesmerized. Not in a creepy way, more in a National Geographic, is-it-going-to-fall-off-completely? kind of way. Every so often she would sneak a peek on her way to the bathroom, water bottle in hand as a decoy. “Just hydrating!” she’d chirp while craning her neck like an owl. She became a low-key scientist, observing changes in its position throughout the night: had it crept farther up? Would it finally breach containment protocol and reveal more than anyone paid for?

Such are the mysteries of the albergue. Forget the Meseta or the Pyrenees, nothing tests a pilgrim’s spiritual growth quite like bunk-bed booty and textile surrender.

The shower stall was a marvel of modern engineering, if the goal of that engineering was to trap a full-grown adult inside a damp upright coffin. At approximately 2×2 feet, the space offered just enough room to stand still and contemplate your life choices, but not quite enough to turn around without unintentionally exfoliating yourself on the screws that once held the towel rods. There were no hooks, no shelves, no friendly ledges for soap. Your towel? Slung over the door, half-drenched before you even got your socks off. Your clothes? In a damp pile on the floor, possibly now part of a communal laundry ritual no one warned you about.

The shower head dangled from its cord like it too, had given up. There was no mount, you were the mount. Which meant the bathing process turned into a bizarre solo choreography of “get wet,” “put down the shower head,” “frantically scrub before drying like a raisin with a film of protective… soap?”, “pick up the shower head again,” “try to rinse,” and “accidentally blast yourself in the face or the crotch at high pressure.” Repeat until fully clean or emotionally broken. Nothing says pilgrimage like a fight for dignity with a piece of plumbing in a plastic closet.

L from Italy was not a pilgrim. She was a phenomenon. A meteor in motion. A caffeinated hummingbird in human form. And she did all this at warp speed, in flip-flops. Not high-tech, hiking-sandal hybrids. No. Dollar-store, toe-thong, slap-the-back-of-your-heel flip-flops. The kind of footwear most people reserve for beaches, showers, or brief jaunts to the mailbox. But L? She hiked mountain passes in them. She stormed ridge lines in them. She outran thunderstorms in them.

At one point, the toe piece of her flip-flop tore clean through the sole, and she just… slipped it back in and kept going. Like it was a minor inconvenience. Like it was a sneeze. Lesser mortals would have stopped to cry, patch, or at least swear dramatically. But L just laughed, adjusted her stride to accommodate the flapping footwear, and powered on. Her good mood never wavered. Her steps never slowed. She was a sandal-clad spirit of joy, blazing trails while the rest of us, in our overpriced boots and orthopedic inserts shuffled along in her muddy wake, secretly questioning our life choices.

We began the day with the naivety of lambs. Sure, the sky was grey. Sure, the ridge ahead was wrapped in cloud like some sort of divine warning sign wrapped in cotton. But we were pilgrims! Hardened souls! Trail-tested and foolishly optimistic.

The wind was the first to greet us. It did not shake our hands or whisper good morning. No, it slapped us square across the face and then changed directions just to make sure everyone got a turn. Jackets flapped like torn sails. Ponchos twisted themselves into sadistic knots. And then came the rain.

Oh, the rain.

Not the gentle mist that kisses your cheeks and makes you say silly things like, “It’s refreshing!” No. This was the kind of rain that seeks out the soft spots in your resolve and drills straight into them like waterboarding from Valhalla. It came at us sideways, upward, and then seemingly from within. Packs soaked. Socks soaked. Spirits dampened but not broken.

And then the lightning began.

At first it was distant, theatrical lighting for our dramatic ridge-top march. But our Norse friends, smiling and wide-eyed, made a casual mention of how Thor would be proud of our perseverance.

Wrong. Thing. To. Say.

With their blessing, the sky opened like a trapdoor in the heavens. Lightning exploded so close it carved our shadows into the fog. One bolt struck behind us, a deafening crack that sent us ducking for cover in every direction, like a band of soaked squirrels with trust issues. Thunder followed so quickly it was not heard so much as felt, a rib-rattling crack and roar that made even the bravest of us consider joining a monastery.

We trudged on, or rather, skidded, slid, and stumbled down the ridge as the trail became a rocky riverbed. Water poured in rivulets, then streams, then full-on cascades. Every step forward felt like a challenge issued by the mountain itself. One misplaced foot and you were bound for the reservoir 1000m below via express stream.

We descended into the canyon of the Embalse de Salime, soaked to the marrow, blistered, bruised, and bellied up with adrenaline. Ponchos clung to us like shrouds. Waterproof pack covers? Utter lies. They merely delayed the flood by five minutes. Maybe six, if you offered them a prayer and a bribe.

But then, as all great storms do, it passed.

The wind softened. The clouds parted. Somewhere, a bird chirped, an actual chirp, not just a cry for help. We emerged like shipwreck survivors, soaked, muddy, laughing like lunatics. There we stood, trail-worn and thunder-kissed, shaking our fists at the sky and thanking whatever gods had decided to spare us this time.

We were no longer individuals, we were bonded by bolts of sky-fire and rivers underfoot. And though the Norse may need to work on their divine intercessions, we will always remember that wild descent not just as a test, but as a triumph.

What is a Camino without a little weather trying to kill you?

Today, I was given the quiet honor of being entrusted with someone’s truth, not the version polished for the world, but the raw and tender story that lives beneath the surface. One of our group, with a courage that humbles me, chose to share the profound weight of what they have carried, and the long, winding path that has led them here. Life, or perhaps something deeper, grace, chance, faith has offered them a second chance. And somehow, in the strange alchemy of the Camino, I was invited into that sacred space of their unfolding.

There are moments on this path when time seems to stretch and contract, when the usual defenses fall away and what is real rises to the surface. I have had the privilege of listening, not just with my ears, but with my whole heart. The kind of conversation that changes you in ways you will not realize until years later. To be seen as a brother, to be invited into the heart of someone else’s reckoning, is something beyond words. It is a gift I do not take lightly.

The Camino has many teachings, but perhaps none more powerful than this: when we walk with openness, we meet each other at our most human. What has formed here is not a fleeting acquaintance, but something enduring, a friendship etched deep by the steps we have taken, the tears we have shared, and the silence we have honored. This, I will carry with me always.

Today’s adventure began with a masterclass in disorganization. Our Camino family had somehow managed to scatter across three towns overnight. Some took taxis. Others walked alternate routes. A few of us slept in and indulged in the rarest of Camino luxuries: a leisurely breakfast. I believe that was the last relaxed moment of the day.

J&T and N&T, ever the pragmatic pairings, decided to ship their packs to Berducedo. Not a bad idea, considering T&T’s injuries and the minor detail of a 1000-meter climb crammed into the first five kilometers. I debated following suit, but the logistics of carrying water, snacks, and my indispensable bag of mystery trail mix without a pack were unappealing. So I pulled a “Camino Special” — emptied my gear into two of the pack to be sent them ahead. Naturally, I didn’t pay attention to which packs i out my stuff in.

The climb itself was less of a surprise and more of an ambush. We had done worse on the Primitivo… just not all at once and first thing in the morning. By the time we reached the junction, my calves were writing strongly worded letters to my quads. I slowed down, partly out of wisdom, mostly out of necessity.

Then the wind showed up. At first, it was the polite kind that cools your back and gently nudges you forward. By the time we crested the ridge, that same wind had morphed into a sassy teenager with a grudge, threatening to launch us into Galicia without the courtesy of a landing strip. Luckily the sun stayed behind high clouds, saving us from both sunburn and needing to wear our sunglasses inside like rockstars.

Up top, we passed herds of cattle and horses. This sparked a debate: wild horses or meat horses? Bells and brands were scrutinized. A few of us leaned into our cultural assumptions with the confidence of people who once watched a documentary half-asleep. Verdict: wild horses. Probably. We all felt better with that consensus.

Our group of ten stretched and contracted like an old accordion in a French café. Some wandered off to climb bonus peaks. Others rested or refueled. But even at its most stretched, we were never out of auditory range—thanks to the never-ceasing conversational beacon that is J&N. Frogs in springtime have nothing on those two.

The descent. Oh, the descent. Eight hundred vertical meters of rock-surfing and knee-clenching joy. I remembered this section well, mostly because I left a piece of my dignity (and a meniscus) here nine years ago. This time, we all made it down intact, albeit scattered across several kilometers like dropped breadcrumbs.

At the albergue, a few bags had arrived. Well, not my bag, just the bag I vaguely recognized and hoped had something useful inside. The rest had taken a detour, likely enjoying a sangria at another albergue.

Enter my new Norwegian friends. They invited me to lunch and I, still smelling of honest sweat and bad decisions, joined them. We were deep in conversation when our waitress—bless her soul—attempted to carry our drinks. Attempted. She tilted, physics took over, and I was baptized in Estrella Galicia. The Norwegians applauded my beer-dodging antics. I stood there, drenched, dripping, laughing.

“It smells better than sweat,” I said. And then I gave the poor waitress a hug, because there is no shame in a little spilled beer when you are surrounded by kindness.

Today was hard. And beautiful. And hilarious. And exactly why I keep coming back.

Today’s trail had it all: ancient Roman roads, lush green forests, airborne menthol, and one surprise shortcut so bold it could only be accidental.

Let us start with T&T, our beloved hobbled heroes. They limped out of town like two retirees heading to bingo night and promptly vanished into a fog thicker than the mist in a Stephen King novel. The rest of us assumed they had been swallowed by a cloud or wandered into a mossy alternate dimension. But no, they reappeared hours later ahead of us, having taken a wrong turn so catastrophically wrong that it was somehow right. They looked victorious to see us. We looked surprised to see them. The fog is clearly sentient and has a wicked sense of humor.

Meanwhile, J&N were doing what J&N do best: talking. Constantly. Loudly. Endlessly. Their cheerful conversation echoed through the valleys like a social GPS beacon. Wherever their voices rang out, discussing injuries, relationships, or whether goats can cry, we pilgrims knew we were still on the right track. Their chatter might be the only reason no one else ended up in Portugal.

We made generous use of our designated injury breaks, also known as two-hour pop-up pharmacies. There were shots of orujo to “numb the knees/ankles/feet,” along with heroic quantities of ibuprofen and prednisone to keep us upright. Menthol cream was applied so liberally that the resulting fumes singed the inner lining of our sinuses and reset our childhood memories.

By evening, the group had split in the great albergue lottery. Most of us, in a rare logistical win, booked out the good one, a charming place with hot showers, cold beer, and chairs that did not collapse when you sat on them. Four others were not so lucky. T&N stopped for a short day and will catch up to us via taxi in the morning for breakfast. The Norwegian duo found themselves in an albergue so dilapidated that bar service did not start until 7pm. That is criminal.

While they huddled in silence and spider webs, the rest of us lounged in what might as well have been a five-star spa. Beer was flowing. Food was hearty and delicious. Someone might have even ironed their socks. Most of us are in awe to find a mini golf course at our albergue. What’s next?

The trails today were stunning, ferns so green they looked Photoshopped, cow pastures fresh enough to remind us what we stepped in, and ancient Roman roads that once bore the sandals of empires and now carry our tired feet. We walked through actual clouds. It was all up and down, but nothing new for our tired legs.

This ragtag crew, our pilgrims of pain and philosophy we come from everywhere, yet somehow we click. Between the silly jokes, the shared injuries, and the accidental existential debates, we have found something real.

I love these people. I really do. They inspire me. They make me laugh. And if nothing else, they always carry extra ibuprofen.

The Camino Primitivo continues to amaze me.

Today began with a 700-meter climb right out of Salas, something that looked daunting on paper. But out there, immersed in emerald forests and serenaded by birdsong and babbling brooks, the climb passed without struggle. My steps were guided more by awe than effort.

The first five kilometers I walked entirely alone. Fitting, really, for the summer solstice, a quiet path through nature offering the perfect space for gratitude and reflection.

Near the top of the climb, just before La Espina, I began to spot familiar faces. Pilgrims I had seen before offered nods, smiles, and the occasional “Buen Camino.” I stopped at a café, one of the first open ones on this sleepy Sunday and before long, it was full of old acquaintances. We shared coffee, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and tortilla. That shared breakfast became a bonding moment, and we left Espina as a loose-knit group of new companions.

The walk from there to Tineo was a social one. I fluttered from person to person like a Camino butterfly. There was a brother-sister duo from California and Colorado, a father-daughter team from New Jersey, a father-son pair from Norway, a man from Taiwan, and many more.

The Norwegian father and I ended up walking in front, and we eventually stopped at the first bar in Tineo. It was the same bar I remembered stopping at back in 2016 with another band of Camino friends. We sat there for over an hour, talking, laughing, even singing. A WhatsApp group was created, and it has already taken on a life of its own.

Today stirred powerful memories. Almost exactly nine years ago, I was here. And now, once again, this route brings people together. The Primitivo is hard, rugged, technical, and remote but I remember so much of it. Maybe because I am not walking it alone?

Most pilgrims here are veterans. This is rarely someone’s first Camino. Everyone in our group has walked several before, some more than a dozen. They’re trail-savvy and socially vibrant, and each brings a different story to share. Two days ago I met an 83-year-old woman who, just seven years ago, could barely walk. She’s now walking the Primitivo, from France. And just yesterday, I chatted with a 22-year-old who had just graduated and wanted to start adulthood with something meaningful.

As I’ve been writing and reflecting more deeply for the book I’m compiling, I hit a wall with one of the major sections. But today, listening to others share how the Camino has transformed them, many using the exact words and feelings I’ve struggled to express, it clicked. Their honesty mirrored my own inner experience, and it helped me break through the block. My motivation has returned, and with it, a renewed confidence in my voice.

The Primitivo does that. It reveals what matters. It unites strangers. And it reminds me, once again why I love this Camino.

Here is the thing about the Camino: it does a number on your memory. Not in a bad way. More like someone shook up your brain like a snow globe and all the little towns, cafes, and steep hillsides tumble around in no particular order. I remember walking the Primitivo back in 2016. I remember that it was beautiful, I met people I still talk to, and it carved itself deep into my soul. But if you asked me to match names to places or tell you which hill had the donkey with the bell, I’d just smile and nod vaguely.

The tougher the day, the more likely my memories are to dissolve into sweaty fog. Trails where I kept my head down and muttered inspiring things like “just keep walking” and “this was a choice you made” are usually the ones where I wonder, years later, if I really walked them or just hallucinated the whole thing over a bad plate of calamari.

But the Primitivo? It feels different. Even in the fog and exhaustion, the memories are stronger. When I round a bend or pass an old fountain, it is like my mind says, “Ah yes, here we are again.” Faces come back to me too—friends I made and kept, names I still see pop up in WhatsApp chats, people I have visited in their home countries. That is the thing about this route: it builds more than muscle. It builds bonds.

Today was a solid 24 km with about 730 meters of ascent. Not brutal, but let’s just say it was enough to remind the legs they still have work to do. The fog was so thick in the morning it felt like we were walking inside a steamed-up fishbowl. Most of us pulled out our rain covers—not because it was raining, but because the mist was eager to soak our gear with the enthusiasm of a wet golden retriever.

The Primitivo shines in its balance. The people-to-solitude ratio is nearly perfect. I joked earlier that it was crowded, but that was just pre-coffee crankiness. Our little walking wave seems to have about fifty pilgrims. Spread across the stages, it means you recognize people throughout the day. At first it is just a shared “Buen Camino.” Then come the questions: where are you from? When did you start? Eventually names get exchanged. Life stories are shared in broken language and laughter over communal meals. Whether or not we say goodbye at the end, we will all have a space in each other’s Camino stories.

As I strolled into Salas, nothing looked familiar—until it did. One turn and suddenly there was the medieval archway, the stone walls, the sleepy square just as I had remembered. Like meeting an old friend after many years apart. You forget the details, but the heart of it is exactly the same.

My albergue was just around the corner. Easy enough. Spain is apparently trying to make the pilgrim check-in process more digital. Last night in Grado, the hospitalero told us about a shiny new QR code system for all participating albergues. So I marched in today ready to dazzle the host with my tech-savvy pilgrim credentials. Except this albergue uses a completely different QR code system. So now I have two QR codes that do the same thing, neither of which works universally. Modern efficiency at its finest.

Still, it was a good day. A foggy, footsore, friendship-filled kind of day that reminded me why the Primitivo has always held a special place in my heart—even if I cannot remember exactly why.

I did something wild: I did not walk for two days – well, more than 20km. After 18 straight days of putting one foot in front of the other like a wind-up toy with sore knees, I decided to skip the five-day mountain march from La Robla to Oviedo. I jumped into a rideshare, and just like that, I was whisked over what would have been 120km of grueling, knee-snapping elevation gains and descents in just two hours. Let me tell you, the views were stunning, but not nearly as stunning as the realization that I did not have to climb any of it.

I took two down days in Oviedo, well, one and a half. The first was a laundry-beer-cathedral kind of afternoon. After washing a small mountain of clothes, I wandered over for lunch, nursed a beer while watching life unfold in the plaza, and waited for the cathedral to open so I could get my sello. I do not know if it was the sun or the slow pace, but everything felt very Camino-zen.

The second day was more ambitious, in a tour-group kind of way. I booked an excursion to Covadonga and the lakes up in the northwest corner of the Picos de Europa. A funny moment of full-circle perspective: just days ago I was trudging through the other side of those very same mountains, wondering where my next water fountain was. Now I was gawking at the same peaks from a breezy van seat, thinking, “Dang, I really did walk through that.”

Oviedo surprised me. I knew I liked Bilbao, who would not, with its quirky blend of culture, history, and pintxos, but Oviedo is giving it a run for its money. Classy, clean, friendly, and the kind of city that makes you think, “Should I research real estate here?”

This morning, the Camino Primitivo began again. I remembered this trail fondly, and it turns out my memory was not rose-colored, it was accurate. Once you get out of the city, it is classic Primitivo: shady forests, rolling terrain, wide open countryside, and just the right amount of trail variation to keep your feet entertained.

The forecast had called for 87°F and sun, so I loaded up my hydration pack like I was a relation to a camel. But the Camino, in its infinite Camino-ness, gave me cool, refreshing fog until noon. Only the last hour was hot, and even then, I was shaded for most of it. Honestly, it felt like a small blessing.

What really threw me off was the crowd. I counted over 40 pilgrims on the trail today. That may be peanuts on the Camino Francés or Portuguese, but coming straight off the Lebaniego and Olvidado, where a busy day is seeing another human this felt like a parade. Not exactly Mardi Gras, but definitely “No Kings Day” levels of human presence, perspective in check.

Strangely, the albergue only had 10 pilgrims by 4 PM. There are 16 beds. That means a lot of folks are either pushing on another 10km or splurging on hotels. My guess is that the crowd will start to space itself out soon enough. Pilgrim physics, you know?

Anyway, today was a welcome return to the familiar. My legs were rested, the trail was gorgeous, and I am excited for what lies ahead.

Let me begin by saying that today was, without a doubt, the kind of day that takes your soul out behind the woodshed and gives it a good talking to.

First off, breakfast. That mythical thing. The café in Boñar was supposed to open at 0630. I arrived at 0630, full of hope and hunger. It opened at 0800. I set off hungry, mentally promising myself that 10km on an empty stomach is not so bad. A bit of walking meditation. A bit of quiet reflection. A bit of cow slurry.

Yes, cow slurry. The trail was generously carpeted with overgrown weeds, which in pilgrim terms means you are definitely about to step in something soft and squishy. Which I almost did. Thankfully my reflexes were still sharp, or at least sharper than the smell.

Then came the flies. The kind of flies that do not just buzz — no, these suckers commit war crimes. I waved my trekking poles like a kung fu master whose only disciples are bloodthirsty insects. When that failed, I resorted to beating my own shoulders with my hat in a desperate effort to convince the flies that I was either already dead or completely insane. Neither worked.

Just before reaching the café (sweet, beautiful caffeine within sight), I stepped into the road without looking both ways — a rookie mistake. A cyclist barreling down the hill took this personally and unleashed a full-throated, multi-lingual curse storm upon me. I would have responded, but my blood sugar was too low to form words. I just shrugged and moved on.

The next 20 kilometers were not so much walked as endured. The trail turned into fresh asphalt — the shiny, soul-sizzling kind that radiates heat like the floor of a pizza oven. My feet began to bake. At some point I was sure I could smell bacon. Turns out it was just my own misery sizzling in my socks.

Oh, and let us not forget the BMW incident. While dutifully walking on the left side of the road (as pilgrims are taught), I was nearly vaporized by a black BMW doing warp speed. Not only did he pass me by inches, but he managed to do it while also dodging a pedestrian 100 meters ahead. I think we both achieved spiritual enlightenment at the same moment — the kind that only near-death experiences can offer. The pedestrian ahead jumped three feet in the air and unleashed a poetic explosion of swearing so colorful it would make Shakespeare drop his quill.

By the time I limped into La Robla, I had completely lost the will to think pleasant thoughts. The flies, the asphalt, the anger-yelling athletes — all of it had stripped me down to my mental boxer shorts. I hit the shower and attempted a nap. My body refused. Instead, I booked a ride share to Oviedo and a hotel for two nights. I also booked a guided tour of some special sites, but I will leave that surprise for later.

The Camino Olvidado is behind me now. The Primitivo awaits. I do not remember much of the scenery from today, but I will remember the heat, the grit, and the sheer willpower it took to get here. And that, somehow, is enough.

This morning, I bid farewell to the Camino Vadiniense and officially set foot on the Camino Olvidado, the “Forgotten Way.” The name is not just poetic. It is a quiet path, barely trodden, like the abandoned side quest of a video game. I will only be on it for two days before veering northwest toward Oviedo, but for now, it is just me, the hills, and the ghosts of old pilgrims past.

The Wise Pilgrim app warned there would be no services between Cistierna and Boñar. That sent a slight shiver down my spine, not because I feared starvation, but because I distinctly remembered having a coffee along this trail three years ago. A recheck of my old blog confirmed my memory was not faulty, but I was not about to test my luck. I found a bar open in Cistierna, had my morning toast and coffee, and filled my water bottles with a doomsday-prepper’s enthusiasm.

Lunch was already packed several days ago, in a moment of carnivorous foresight, I picked up venison chorizo and smoked mountain cheese in Potes. Pilgrim pro tip: these things age like fine wine in your pack and taste even better when eaten in the wild while seated on a dusty rock, pretending to be a Roman centurion.

Around mid-morning, something strange happened. I saw a shadow ahead on the road. A pilgrim-shaped shadow. But this is the Olvidado… there should not be any other pilgrims here. Naturally, I did what any curious wanderer would do, sped up.

It was a Polish man in his 70s, out walking his “last” Camino. His knees are scheduled for replacement when he gets home, and his energy, he said, is gone. But when I asked how many Caminos he had done, he straightened like a proud tree and said, “Nineteen.”

He had skipped breakfast and brought no lunch, which made me question his Camino veteran status — until he started rattling off names of places on the different Caminos I barely remember. We sat in the shade and shared food and stories. I gave him some of the sacred venison chorizo. He gave me stories from all over the globe. Not a bad trade.

By the time I reached Boñar, the mercury had climbed to 32°C, and I melted my way to a bar for a beer and my beloved Kaz Limón. After that, I found the hostel, which had no desk, no bell, no apparent system of operation… only a dining room.

Inside, a matriarch ate lunch while a patriarch watched The Simpsons in Spanish. I offered a “Buen Provecho” and asked for help. She sighed, got up mid-lunch, and began flipping through a book with the kind of intensity normally reserved for solving cold cases. Five minutes later, she handed me a scrap of paper with a door code, room number, and lockbox combo. I snatched it like it was a Wonka golden ticket and walked out proudly.

At least, until I needed the paper again… and it was gone. Panic. Pocket-emptying. Frantic street-dancing. Turned out the humidity in my shorts had sweat-glued it to the back of my phone. I should bottle that as a new adhesive.

After a shower, I walked out for lunch and locked myself out of the room, leaving the magic paper inside. Future me would handle it. Present me needed food.

I wandered into a café without a name, only to discover that I had accidentally entered the Latin American embassy of Boñar. The music was Manu Chao, Ricardo Arjona, and Juan Luis Guerra. The radio DJ had a Guatemalan accent complete with typical heavy reverb of DJs. The owner? Guatemalan too. Sometimes, the universe tosses you a little slice of home when you least expect it.

Now with errands done and dinner waiting on the horizon, I’ll see if I can break back into my room or sweet-talk my way past the matriarch once more. Either way, today was rich in connection, surprise, and that strange magic the Camino always seems to deliver. Even the forgotten paths remember how to delight.

Today was a solitary 20km stroll, tracing the path of the Río Esla. I’ve been keeping company with this river for three days now, including its wide, quiet reservoir near Riaño. Much of the trail today, like parts of yesterday follows an old Roman trade route. That’s essentially what the Camino Vadiniense is: an ancient connector between the big Roman roads that became the Camino Francés and the Camino del Norte. Practical then. Peaceful now.

These Roman routes still wind past tiny hamlets. Some take pride in the Camino and keep the trails clear. Others… not so much. Yesterday, the weeds were shoulder-high, hiding all manner of prickles, stingers, and bloodsuckers. I was basically bushwhacking my way through blackberry brambles and nettle gauntlets, all while hoping no tick found my ankles attractive.

The first five kilometers today were more of the same green, itchy chaos. So when I stopped for breakfast, I asked the barkeep about the trail ahead. She smirked knowingly and warned me: “Muchas malas hierbas.” I joked about yesterday’s weed wall, and she reassured me that what lay ahead was “mucho mejor.”

And she was right.

The path opened up. For the next 15km, it was pure joy. I passed old iron mine shafts, sections of the Esla where they’ve built whitewater kayaking circuits, and green pastures where cows blocked the trail and gave me long, judgmental stares. It felt like I was trespassing on their property. I bowed politely and continued on.

Cistierna snuck up on me. I was sure I’d recognize it. After all, I stayed here three years ago while walking the Camino Olvidado. But nothing rang a bell. Turns out that year I had detoured here by train after striking out on beds in the previous towns. Different route, same way point.

I reread my blog from that trip and smiled. The next two days are long, both about 30km but fairly flat, or at least forgiving in their climbs. I am looking forward to them.

Tomorrow I walk to La Robla where, back in 2022, I met my friend Paco. I’m eager to return. Maybe the Camino has more old friends hiding just around the bend.

Last night was my idea of luxury: an Airbnb apartment right above all the bars and restaurants of Riaño. Which is to say, it was both a prime location and an acoustical nightmare. See, Spanish nightlife and pilgrim bedtime do not play on the same team. Just as my eyelids were getting heavy around 10:00 p.m., the streets below roared to life. Children were squealing, glasses were clinking, and someone, somewhere, was clearly arguing about ham.

But I had a secret weapon: earplugs. Industrial strength. The kind that block out everything from dance beats to existential dread. Once those were in, I was out like a light, and woke up at 6:30 feeling like I had borrowed someone else’s well-rested body.

Breakfast was at the hotel across the street at 8:00 sharp, and by 8:30, I was stepping onto the viaduct that spans the reservoir. It felt like walking into a postcard, mountains towering in the distance, the water below still and glassy, the morning air crisp and full of promise.

Soon came a fork in the trail: a new route over a 200-meter climb and 6.5 km of mountain pass, or the old Roman road that followed the highway with almost no gain and a longer distance. I chose the Roman road, because if you’re going to skip a climb, do it with the blessing of empire.

That old road snaked through rich farmlands and into the shadows of massive limestone cliffs. Eventually, it guided me through an 850-meter tunnel, dark and cool, and out onto the dam. The dam itself was an impressive work of engineering, probably not Roman, but it felt spiritually aligned. The trail veered left and dropped sharply to the river, picking up the Roman road again, this time wilder, weedier, and generously sprinkled with what I can only describe as bear-sized bear scat.

Crossing a rickety footbridge into Salas, I was immediately hailed by the town’s Council of Abuelas. They informed me, each with varying degrees of authority that the only bar in town was on vacation. I took the news bravely and retreated to the riverbank, where I produced a modest feast from my bag: venison sausage and smoked cheese, both purchased days ago in a moment of prophetic wisdom. I dined under a fig tree like some tick-covered Roman poet.

Yes, ticks. As I leaned back, basking in my smug riverside satisfaction, I noticed that my arms were speckled with dots. Tiny, moving dots. Upon closer inspection: ticks! Dozens of them. Not your run-of-the-mill forest freeloaders either. These were micro-ticks. So small they could have passed for dust mites with delusions of grandeur.

I brushed myself off with all the grace of a man trying not to panic, repacked, and,when the trail offered more overgrown Roman road I gave it a firm no gracias. The highway may be dull, but at least it doesn’t try to colonize your ankles.

Crémenes welcomed me like an old friend. I had a beer and a Kas Limón at the bar, found my room, showered off any lingering six-legged companions, took a well-earned nap, and made it back to the restaurant before the kitchen closed.

There, in a delightful twist, I ran into the three women I had met two nights earlier in Portilla, two German friends and their Aussie Camino companion. Stories flowed. Laughter returned. Pilgrimage reconnected.

By the end of the day, my feet were tired but solid. My body felt sturdy. My spirit, buoyed by conversation, scenery, and the good fortune of fig trees (minus ticks)—was in a very good place.